Where Do I Belong?
by Rho108
Summary: Harry Potter has endured so much in his past sixteen years that make up his life. He knows he needs help. Who will be there to help him?.... or will he have to survive on his own? Selfharm, abuse, angst, depression, and all that.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is dedicated to my teacher at my school, who has always been there for me and motivated and inspired me. He's my role model.**

The dangerously thin boy aimlessly wandered around the park for a third time, emerald eyes downcast. He wore a mere shirt and jeans, along with a pair of passably fair shoes; at least in the boy's eyes it was. The clothes held several large, gapping holes, allowing the rough cold air to run through the body, ferociously giving the boy's insides an everlasting chill. On his jeans were a few slashes, all from the knife slashes he had received from his so-called relatives. Dried blood caked part of it, but wasn't too evident to result in curious questions and peculiar ideas.

However, the teen's clothing was barely noticeable when taking into account the boy's natural appearance. His face possessed several large and ugly bruises, ranging from shades of blue and purple, indicating how severe they were. His nose was in a rather awkward position, noticeable, yes, but no one had bothered to query him of it. It was obviously broken.

But still, that wasn't all, the glasses. The one thing that gave him sight to his world. These glasses generously gave him a scant bit of what the world was to him. He could barely make things out for what they are, for they were too old, but miraculously survived with this flaw. If this was not worse enough, the left glass was cracked: it had been stepped on. Cracks in the glass made things appear differently as to what it truly was, and this only led to the boy's disadvantage. The frame was slightly damaged, resulting in it being in an awkward position when placed on the boy's face.

But, there was one thing that possessed so much significance to be made worthy of competition of all the boy's flaws. And that was his eyes. If you were to merely look into them, you would see. See a scant bit of what pain he had miserably experienced, the things he witnessed that some elderly would not be able to handle, the sights he endured. You would see all that if you were to merely make eye contact with him. See all that in a mere second. What he witnessed in hours and days at a time, you would see in a mere second.

If you were to extensively search his eyes, you would know. Know that he saw just too much for one his age. Know that he witnessed what he should not have. Know that some of his experiences immensely towered yours. Know that he never got the childhood he had been denied of, so long desired for. Know that he experienced powerful emotions beyond his control of every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year. You would become knowledgeable of all this. And for this to become accomplished, especially with one as young as him…it's simply amazing. Amazing that the boy possesses so much. So much that it exceeds all his classmates' if put into one.

His eyes were so worn out. They had seen the meaning of life, what life has in store for one, and what life can do to you. He was existing proof of what life could do to you if you were not strong enough to endure it. His eyes were enveloped with lines. Deep, permanent lines that only arrive to a person when they have experienced so much.

This boy suffered immensely inside. Inside his heart, his soul, his mind. But he simply refused to allow it to show. Out of pure willpower, he had created walls around his emotional side. These protected his thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas…all of that. These walls possessed such great strength, toughness, and endurance that the boy was reassured that no one would ever break through them. The walls strength was what the boy wished he had, desired for. He wished he himself possessed this much power. He craved for it. He held inside a thirst so powerful that screamed at him for this power. But, he was not sure if he would ever get the power and quench the everlasting thirst.

The boy continued to walk around the park, not oblivious to the fact that he would not be granted permission to walk freely for a long while. He was aware, he merely wanted to breathe in fresh, clean, cool air. Allow his lungs to breathe deeply, taking in deep breaths, holding them in for as long as humanly possible, then methodically releasing it with a heavy sigh.

He needed help. Emotional help, physical help, mental help. He was like a person in the middle of the desert, regretfully possessing a great thirst for water. He was so broken, so broken inside. Life had crudely done this to him. He now understood that life was not a game. Life was unfair. Oh yeah, he learned that a long time ago…when he was barely a year old. Yes, life was unfair. Cruel, cold, heartless, mercilessly eating away at his soul till barely anything remained, and that soon would disparate without help. He needed help. He just hoped he would get it soon enough. Before it was to late.

This boy, believe it or not, is 16-year old Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

So what do you guys think? I worked pretty diligently on it. I personally think it's a lot better than my other fics…which I may be removing, so you know. I really need help with this, I'm just starting with no real plot in mind. But tell me something…how is this, considering this was written by a 12-year old? I'm sorry I haven't been updating my stuff lately…my life's been outta control, literally, ups and downs and all that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Harry Potter. I just created this story for fun and in hope that people will like it and review. J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter material. I am making no money from this.**

The young man sighed heavily, once more making it permissible for the cool night air to enter his body, somewhat relaxing him. His intuition suddenly kicked in, warning him of soon to come danger. It vigorously told him to get home. His guts felt as if they were on the verge of exploding. He knew, mentally, he should get home, before "it" happened again. His mind screamed angrily at him to run the way home, whilst his body ignored his mind and walked a slow rhythm down the sidewalk.

And Harry didn't fight it. He slowly wandered back to his "home". He knew what was in for him. He knew, instinctively, that he was late. Harry suddenly realized. Realized that he should not have been out too long. 'What if they don't let me back out again?' he thought wildly. No… no! They couldn't do that…but they would. He knew it. Being able to go outside during the time of the night, feeling the cold air lash mercilessly at him. The wind eased his blasting pain which angrily spread through his body with each movement. The wind was his friend. Always there when he needed him, never yelled at him for not being there, comforting him. At least, all this was true in Harry's mind.

He had simply suffered so much at the hands of his relatives. Simply so much, that it killed him inside. And put him teetering closer and closer to death. Harry knew, it would continue until he fell over the edge and either died or had a real break down.

A real breakdown. Is there such a thing? At least to Harry there was. He'd had "incomplete" breakdowns. Incomplete breakdowns were when Harry either broke down from the physical pain his uncle lashed out on him, which spread through his body like wild fire which each beat of his heart, sometimes disabling his ability to think correctly. Basically, it was when Harry either had a physical breakdown, or a mental breakdown, not both at the same time. He had never experienced, nor did he want to, suffering a mental and physical breakdown. He was knowledgeable of what would occur in the event that he suffered both. The pain simply would be unbearable. It would mercilessly eat away at him, till it either knocked him unconscious, or till he lost it, mentally. Of course, because he had never experienced it before, he couldn't be too sure. He just hoped that it would remain that way. However, unfortunately for Harry, when the time comes when hell attacks, hope will leave him.

Harry continued his slow walk back. He wasn't even paying attention to where he was going. The reason for this is that he knew the path so well, there existed no necessity for him to be aware. He kept his eyes shamefully downcast, as he walked down the sidewalk. Rarely, he would bump into another pedestrian. If this occurred, it instantly triggered his reaction: apologizing, whilst keeping his head bowed, and quickly return to his journey. Occasionally, when this occurred, the person he walked into would give him looks of curiosity with furrowed brows and slightly squinting eyes. Rarely would someone ask if he was alright, but if the time came where that occurred, Harry merely muttered a "I'm fine, thanks for asking", but it was clearly obvious that it was a lie. You could tell by his voice, how it was completely void of emotion, and merely by taking a one-second glance at his body.

Harry closed his eyes fearfully when he found himself at the door of number four, Privet Drive. How had he arrived so quickly? To Harry, it seemed to pass by quicker than his year at Hogwarts, but in the real world it had been an estimated time of one hour. He half-heartedly knocked on the door. Harry's keen senses allowed him to hear stomping. Harry assumed it was his cousin. But, then again, with Dudley, you could be deaf and still hear him walking down.

The door jerked open, only because Dudley was not oblivious to who was at the door. Dudley simply sneered at his pitiful excuse for a cousin as he stepped aside to let Harry in. Dudley generously held the door open for his cousin, and Harry, who wasn't paying attention, absent-mindedly walked through. When Harry stepped through, however, Dudley's hands "accidentally" slipped, resulting in the door swinging to close again, and, since Harry was right in front of it, he got smacked in the head.

A gasp of pain erupted from Harry whilst snickering was heard from Dudley. The door hit his skull rather hard, and from the impact area, it spread through his head and with each beat of his heart, a throb erupted and he felt it throb around his entire head and stop for a second, only to start again.

By the time Harry recovered from the shock, Dudley had gone back to the kitchen table. Which, one may add, was rather quick for someone his size. Harry regretfully walked inside, trying to not make any noticeable sounds. Once he was in, he closed the door behind him and locked it, possessing the horrible feeling that he was imprisoning himself as he did so.

The second the door had closed and the click of the lock rang lightly throughout the room, stomping was heard from the kitchen. The dreadful feeling of misery and fear went right up his throat, disabling him to speak, and even if he could, it would come out as stuttering. Vernon's face soon made its appearance as he advanced towards the young wizard. Harry closed his eyes in utter fear and counted down. 'Three….two….'

"Where the hell have you been, boy?!" came the yell Harry dreaded.

'One…'

A few seconds trickled by. "Well, answer me, boy!" Vernon screamed, grasping Harry's throat, but did not constrict it yet.

"I-I'm s-sorry, sir, I wasn't a-aware that i-it w-was p-past my t-time…"Harry miraculously managed to choke out.

"I don't want to hear that excuse again, freak!"

"I-I-I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon, I-" Harry was cut off.

"Don't call me that! I feel disgusted just to be related to you! If it weren't for those other freaks at that….that….that place, I would have hauled you out of here for good!" Vernon yelled, his eyes bulging, brows furrowed in exasperation, and hatred dripping his voice.

The fingers constricted more tightly around its victim in pure anger and hatred.

"N-no, please, n-not again!" Harry cried, as he couldn't catch his breath. Fear struck him fiercely. 'Someone help me…please'

"I warned you, boy, now you're gonna get it!" Vernon screamed, and, with that, he stalked over to the cupboard.

"N-no, please, not-" Harry protested.

"Shut your mouth, boy! I'll deal with you later!"

Vernon, still grasping Harry's throat as if it were nothing more than a bag of garbage, threw Harry in. The moment Harry's head made impact with the wall of his cupboard, a sickening crack exploded.

"You'll get it later, boy! Be thankful I'm not doing anything now! Maybe you'll use this time to thank me, for when I didn't go hard on you. You're nothing but a murdering freak that no one cares for! A sick, cold, freak that doesn't belong on this planet and only in hell!"

With those crude words said, the door slammed shut, and the darkness soon enveloped around Harry. As much as Harry hated it, loathed it, what Vernon said was true. He had killed Sirius. Had he not been a stubborn arrogant fool, he would not have gone to that place, and therefore Sirius and the others wouldn't have come to save them, and therefore would never had fallen through and…died. The feeling of self-loathing spread through Harry like wildfire. He hated himself. Hate. A strong word. But not strong enough for someone like him.

After this feeling slowly died away, another emotion erupted. It was a rather peculiar emotion, Harry couldn't name it, couldn't lay his finger on it, and it was too imperceptible and intangible. 'Probably the feeling that I killed Sirius.' When the thoughts became born in his mind, it started the everlasting emotion roller coaster. It started at his heart, attacked it like it was being attacked with knives, and spread throughout his body, faster and faster with each pump of his heart.

It ate away without mercy at his soul, mind, and heart. There was nothing to be done. Harry didn't know what to do to rid himself of it. His hands searched wildly around the scant amount of space he was enclosed in, looking for something, anything that would be a halt to his pain, at least temporarily. His hands made contact with something, and Harry pulled it out.

It was his dagger, generously given to him as a gift from his loving godfather. Sirius had given it to him because, in the words of Sirius, "It will protect you from anything, like I always will. Because it has so much love inside it, it will never be destroyed. But be careful with it, it possesses great power."

Tears trickled down Harry's face, leaving tracks behind as they raced to the bottom, giving him a slight sensation of a rather tingly feeling. Harry's breathing soon became ragged, but he maintained it, somehow. Harry's left hand quickly darted to a small bulb in the upper corner, and flicked it on. The Durselys, for some unknown reason, had let Harry have a little light in his cupboard. He really didn't know why, but he really couldn't care less. The light flickered for several seconds, then remained on. It gave the room a light glow, it wasn't brand new, but it was better than nothing.

Harry extensively studied the dagger for a moment. The edge was a bit dull for a dagger, but still was in passably fair condition. Better than that, actually, for Sirius had hand polished it before giving it to Harry. He looked at the tip, and, as if some alien had taken control of his mind, he brought it to his skin. Harry just wanted to know what it felt like. He'd read about it before, in some muggle magazine, that people do this to feel better. Self-mutilation, that's what it was.

He brought it to his skin, and immediately felt the coolness of the dagger. He set that aside for now, and pushed it in slightly. It was embed slightly in his skin. Harry methodically brought it down, creating a small thin cut the color of red. Harry gasped. The pain. The pain he got from it, it took his mind off of everything for once, except the pain. The blood slowly came out, creating a small red ball before trickling down his skin, abandoning a red trail as it went further. All Harry thought about then was the pain. It engulfed him, enveloped him, emptying his mind of everything but the pain from the cut.

What Harry didn't realize was this: It was addictive. It was like smoking. Harming yourself physically is very hard to give up. He would soon realize that.

He turned his light off as he felt sleep envelope him. Harry had, for the first time in his life, intentionally harmed himself. For once, Harry closed his eyes slowly, still concentrating on the pain, and slept for three hours, all the while he protectively held his dagger to his heart, until he was woken by the sound of his cupboard door opening.

**So how was that? I worked pretty hard and diligently on this one. Hope it's longer. I won't be updating for at least a week, school's starting again. I'm actually kind of happy school is starting: I missed my friends, and, believe it or not, my teachers. But hey, they all are nice, so can you blame me? I'd appreciate it if you could review, and also tell others about this story. Still, I don't know where I'm going with this, I'm just making it up as I go. I just hope that it will become a great story. I also want to wish everyone a happy New Year filled with lots of happy memories to last you a lifetime!**


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